


Me and Mine

by linndechir



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast and the Furious Series, Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, First Time, Gun Kink, Loyalty, M/M, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Reunions, Revenge, Scars, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time they'd spoken, Deckard had told Owen that he was tired of cleaning up his messes. But the first thing he did after breaking out of prison was to take Owen to the other end of the world so they could lick their wounds and start planning their revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



As embarrassing as it was for a man of his training, Owen couldn't remember half of what had happened the day before. He'd woken up in the same hospital room he'd spent the past few months in – though he had only been conscious for a fraction of that time –, had gone to the same rehab sessions as on previous mornings, and had watched half the hospital get blown to bits by lunch time as his brother had broken him out with a rather uncharacteristic lack of subtlety. They'd been on a plane while the sun was still high in the sky, on their way to some nice, warm corner of the world that didn't have extradition treaties with any of the civilised countries where they were both wanted. Owen had drifted in and out of consciousness during the plane ride and could only remember their actual arrival – the warm evening sun, the smell of the ocean, the beach villa – like it had happened in a dream. He hadn't been in pain, but after months in a coma, the whole day had apparently still been too much for him. Considering that he'd once been able to go for days without sleep, food, or rest, it had been yet another painful reminder of just how weak he still was, even if he could finally walk again without assistance.

When he'd woken up again with the sound of waves in his ears, he had taken a long, relaxed shower in the implicit knowledge that wherever the hell he was, Deckard would have made sure they were safe or let him know if they weren't. He found clothes in the closet of his room because Deckard had never been anything but one hundred percent prepared, and Owen tried not to grit his teeth at the fact that clothes that should have fit him perfectly looked too loose around the shoulders and the middle, that he had to buckle his belt tighter than he used to to keep his jeans in place. 

He milled about the house briefly – found a second used bedroom with an unmade bed and worn clothes strewn over it. The same shirt Deckard had been wearing yesterday, and Owen picked it up briefly to inhale his brother's smell. He hadn't seen Deckard in over two years before yesterday – almost three, if he counted the months during which he hadn't been conscious to miss him. But his brother had still looked the same, still smelt the same, still sounded the same. As it turned out, Deckard had never truly changed for as long as Owen could remember. Even if for the past three years, Owen had thought he had.

Since his brother was nowhere to be found, Owen went down to the kitchen, unsurprised to find a well-stocked fridge and excellent coffee because Deckard Shaw hadn't become the world's most dangerous man only to keep drinking the swill they'd had in the army. 

By the time he heard the front door open, he'd finished a large plate of eggs and three cups of coffee and managed to piece most of yesterday's events together to his satisfaction, even though there was still an irritating hole in his memory somewhere between the plane and the bed he'd slept in. For some reason the idea of Deckard carrying him to bed like a child irked him far more than his brother breaking him out of a very well guarded hospital ward.

Deckard was dripping wet when he stepped into the large kitchen, dressed in nothing but blue swimming trunks, rubbing at his face with a soft towel. He was thinner than Owen remembered him, too. There was an unfamiliar leanness to his once more solid body, and especially his legs seemed skinnier than they should have been.

“Really, you went for a swim?” Owen said by way of greeting.

“If this place wasn't safe enough that I could go for a swim, I wouldn't have brought you here.” 

He towelled himself off quickly, not too thoroughly, and if he noticed the way Owen's gaze clung to the water drops that ran over his shoulders, he didn't show it. Owen tore himself away and poured his brother a cup of coffee, black the way Deckard had always liked it. Neither of them sat down, they just stood there in the spacious and yet somehow too narrow seeming corridor between kitchen counter and table, and without their escape on their mind, it felt more confining than even the plane had the day before. Deckard drank his coffee in silence and watched Owen, eyes scanning him and no doubt noticing all the things Owen himself had noticed before when he'd glanced into a mirror: the paleness, the scars that deformed the left side of his face, the way his clothes didn't fit quite right.

“I didn't think you'd come for me,” Owen said before Deckard could comment on any of it. It was supposed to be a deflection and came out sounding more vulnerable than he'd meant to, a strange fear he hadn't allowed himself to voice for so long. 

Deckard continued to watch him, finally lowering his cup ever so slowly.

“They told you they had caught me.” It wasn't much of a question, but Owen still nodded.

“Made quite a point of rubbing it in, too, just after I woke up.” Owen smiled a little to himself. He'd been sure they were wrong back then, when they'd told him that Deckard had been caught while going after the people Owen owed his nice new set of scars to. He'd wanted to be wrong – he didn't relish the thought of his brother behind bars because of his mistakes. “But I knew they wouldn't be able to hold you for long. They didn't tell me when you escaped, but a few weeks ago they tightened security at the hospital – I wasn't so deluded as to assume they did it because I had learnt how to walk again.”

A smug smile flitted over Deckard's features, and part of Owen wanted to know all about that, about how the hell Deckard had broken out of whatever dark hole they'd put him in. It could wait, though.

“The last time we spoke,” Owen started carefully, his eyes never leaving his brother, and he almost felt smaller than Deckard in that moment, “you said you were done cleaning up my messes. That you'd done enough for me, that the next time I got myself into trouble, you wouldn't be there to get me out of it.”

Deckard looked away, and for a few seconds the room seemed eerily silent, nothing but the waves and the wind outside, and then Deckard put down his cup with too loud a clatter.

“I did say that, didn't I.” Two years, no, almost three had passed since then, and just thinking back of those words still stung Owen. They hadn't always been close, at least not physically, more often than not they'd spent months at different ends of the world, and yet the one thing that had never changed, the one thing Owen had always counted on was that his brother would have his back. That if the whole goddamn world turned on him, Deckard would step in front of him. He might punch him in the face afterwards and call him a goddamn nuisance, but he'd still do it. And then one day he'd told him he was done.

“I meant it, too,” Deckard continued after a long minute's silence. He sneered. “You went on that idiotic job because you got greedy, bit off more than you could chew, called me when you couldn't handle the heat and almost got me killed.” 

Owen fought down his pride and the urge to argue because, when it came down to it, Deckard was right. That mission hadn't been his brightest hour and Deckard had had every right to be pissed off. Owen just hadn't expected him to be quite that pissed off.

“Would you have preferred if I hadn't called you and got _myself_ killed?” he asked instead, and Deckard actually laughed. 

“No, and that's my whole problem right there.” He reached out so suddenly that Owen almost flinched away on instinct, his right hand grabbing Owen's chin so hard it hurt, though Owen barely felt it when Deckard ran his fingertips over the scarred flesh of his cheek. “I don't know why I thought you'd actually learn your lesson from that.”

Owen smacked his hand aside with a glare. He didn't feel like arguing with Deckard. His brother had the annoying habit of being right most of the time, which made arguing with him in equal parts frustrating and futile. Deckard leant back against the kitchen counter and rubbed his neck slowly.

“You didn't really think I'd stay away when some arseholes put my little brother in a coma,” he said. His eyes hadn't softened much, but then there had never been anything soft about either of them or even about the things that bound them together.

And Owen smiled, so hard the scar tissue on his face ached. Deckard had always been a bastard, ruthless and selfish and solitary, but he'd always been principled, even if the only value he seemed to have was family, and even if family had only ever included Owen and not anyone else they were related to. Certainly not the father Deckard had killed because he wasn't going to leave Owen alone with him or the mother he'd smacked around and threatened until she'd let Owen do anything he damn well pleased. 

“I suppose I shouldn't have taken you on your word then,” Owen replied. “Is it true those same arseholes put you in prison?”

“They got lucky,” Deckard said, but there was a barely controlled rage in his eyes. Like all men who rarely lose, he'd always been a sore loser. “They won't be so lucky next time.”

They were still so close that Owen could see every line on his brother's face, a few more around his eyes than there had been the last time they'd spoken, but Deckard's face was still the most familiar thing Owen had seen in years. He hadn't let himself think about how much he'd missed his brother after that conversation – he'd been furious at himself for his mistakes, furious at Deckard for walking out on him, and at the same time he'd told himself that Deckard would come back to him sooner or later. He'd almost stopped believing it, torturing himself through every step over the last few weeks, but of course Deckard had come back. No man, not even Deckard Shaw, could truly rid himself of his one weakness.

“I should have known you'd stick to your code,” Owen said with a smile. He put his hand on Deckard's chest, the skin warm and still a little damp under his fingertips. With Deckard barefoot and leaning back against the counter, their height difference was delightfully obvious, and Owen had never stopped feeling a thrill at that. He considered saying “family”, but that would have been trite and missing the point. “Family” was the two of them, a fortified island in a raging storm. Owen pressed his thumb into the hollow of Deckard's throat, found a drop of sea water there and rubbed it into Deckard's skin. He didn't say “family”, he only said, “Me.”

Deckard didn't reply, even avoided Owen's gaze, but he didn't push his hand away from where it rested against his collarbone. But Owen didn't need him to say anything, he never had. It didn't matter that Deckard was taciturn even in his best moods, he'd always shown Owen that he could rely on him. Owen should have believed in that rather than in his brother's anger the last time they'd spoken. Maybe he should have swallowed his pride and called Deckard back in London when his whole mission had slowly gone to shit.

Owen's thumb slid up to Deckard's throat, with just enough pressure that he could feel his brother's steady pulse. A bit faster than he remembered it being when Deckard looked so calm, but then they were both embarrassingly out of shape. 

“What happens now?” Owen asked. 

“We get our strength back. There are excellent doctors around here to help you with your recovery.” 

He didn't say anything else, but his eyes finally met Owen's again, their focus sharp, the kind of cold anger that sent a greedy shiver through Owen's body, made him want to watch Deckard kill those bastards almost more than he wanted to kill them himself. After all, watching Deckard finish his fights had been one of his favourite pastimes since he'd been a child. Owen dug his fingers into Deckard's skin to keep himself from digging his teeth into the feral smile that started forming on his brother's lips. 

* * * * *

The following weeks were a frustrating exercise in patience. Recovering from any injury was a pain in the arse, a stubborn fight between a mind that was ready for war and a body that refused to heal faster, and Owen had never been injured this severely before. He would have been grateful for the coma that had kept him unconscious while his bones and muscles knitted themselves back together, if said coma hadn't also weakened him so much that the stairs up to his first floor bedroom left him out of breath. The last time he'd been seriously injured had been over ten years ago, back when he'd still been SAS and some shrapnel from an IED somewhere in Afghanistan had punctured several of his organs. Somehow he'd healed faster back then, and the slower process now made him feel downright old. He was still as close to thirty as he was to forty, but he'd never felt more acutely that he was a long, long way from his twenties.

He considered getting his face fixed while he was healing anyway, having the scar tissue removed and replaced with smooth, healthy skin, but there were more pressing matters to take care of. He could indulge his vanity later. The scars didn't stop him from flirting with every other pretty face he ran across in the nearby city – their own stretch of beach was blissfully deserted – and yet he rarely went home with any of them. His mind was on more important things than flimsy distractions, and when it wasn't, it was on Deckard.

Owen also considered killing every single one of his doctors and nurses who'd seen him in this pathetic state, but in the end that seemed somewhat excessive. The thought still cheered him up on bad days. He even told Deckard about it, one morning after he'd finally started feeling strong enough to go running with him. Deckard had laughed and called him a vain brat and looked positively delighted. The look in his eyes almost made Owen reconsider.

They hadn't spent this much time around each other since they'd both been children. Living in the same house, eating together, more and more often training together as Owen grew stronger. They still moved around each other with the same quiet ease as they always had, even after months or years apart. Deckard still didn't talk all that much, as if part of him continued to be mad at Owen and tried to keep some distance between them, and yet he never complained when Owen joined him on the couch while Deckard was reading, when Owen touched him casually or ignored the personal space they'd carefully built around each other in those years when they'd only seen each other every now and then. It was almost like a game to Owen, trying to see how close he could come before he'd burn himself, but whatever he did, every touch to Deckard's shoulder, every brush of their hands, his brother didn't flinch.

One evening Owen came back from a long walk to find Deckard sitting at the dining table and meticulously cleaning and reassembling a rifle. Two handguns lay next to various parts on the table, and Owen picked up one of them before he slotted himself between his brother and the table, Deckard's knees between his legs. Deckard's hands stilled, and Owen didn't miss the way his eyes crept up slowly, stopping at Owen's thighs and crotch in jeans that finally fit him properly, before they eventually settled on Owen's face.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Owen?” Deckard asked with a look on his face that managed to be both sly and innocuous, the barrel of the rifle resting on his lap. Owen played idly with the handgun, fingertips running over the sleek metal, took out the magazine and put it on the table, checked that there was no bullet in the chamber.

“When we go after them,” he said and tapped the muzzle against his chin, “we're going to take our time. I want them to know why they're going to die.”

Deckard sighed and stared down at his hands, his thumb rubbing ineffectively at some gun oil on his left hand.

“They almost managed to kill both of us last time. They put you in a coma you almost didn't wake up from, put me in a hole so dark even I almost stopped believing I'd find a way out of it.” His voice was tense, the corner of his mouth twitched a little. Owen knew that if anyone could survive almost a year without natural light or any human contact without going insane it was Deckard, but even he seemed to recoil a little every time one of them brought up those long, long months he'd spent locked up. “If we're smart, we'll pick them off one by one from convenient rooftops.”

“Is that why you're playing with this?” Owen asked and took the rifle from Deckard's hands, glanced at it briefly and dropped it on the table. “Last time we both made the mistake of underestimating them. I did, you did. We both know better now.”

Owen took Deckard's chin with his left hand to make him look up before he pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against his brother's jaw. Deckard didn't flinch, his hands lay palms down on his knees, his only visible reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he was trying to figure out where the hell Owen was going with this. Owen ran the gun along Deckard's jawline, pressed it into that soft, vulnerable flash below.

“What kind of a punishment would that be, killing them so quickly?” Owen snorted. “You knew that, that's why you didn't do it that way last time, even though it would have been your usual style. We will be quick about it. Efficient. But we're damn sure going to make it hurt.”

Deckard smiled slowly, grim and vicious, kept smiling when Owen moved the gun barrel to his chin and slid it briefly against his lips. For a second Owen wondered if his brother was going to open his mouth and he almost felt dizzy at the thought alone, so distracted that he didn't notice Deckard's hand moving until strong fingers twisted his wrist aside, though without bothering to take the gun from him.

“You're going to get both of us killed some day, little brother,” Deckard said. He stood slowly from his chair, his body pressing Owen back against the table. Owen felt himself harden in his jeans, from Deckard's grip on his wrist, that smile on his face, the heat between their bodies and the fact that Deckard was still here, was always going to be here, because no matter what the hell Owen did or wanted, Deckard would come back to him. He would have scorned that much loyalty in anyone else.

“They're not going to kill us, D. You know why?” His wrist ached under Deckard's grip, he felt himself flush when Deckard's breath washed over his face. Even now that Owen was slowly finding his old strength again, Deckard could have easily killed him with his bare hands, broken every bone in his body and left him in a worse state than he'd been in before. Owen would have despised anyone else for making him feel helpless, but then Deckard had never been a threat. He'd been the army that stood between Owen and any threat he couldn't or simply didn't want to handle himself.

“Why's that?”

“Because they shouldn't have pissed off both of us,” Owen said. He thought about Toretto on his knees in front of him with a gun to his head and about Deckard's hands breaking Hobbs' thick neck. He thought about kissing the blood off his brother's fingers when it was all done, the smell of sweat and gunpowder clinging to them. He was hard and he knew that Deckard couldn't have missed it, as close as they were standing, and for a long, long moment he almost thought Deckard was going to do something about that. But he didn't, and eventually Owen simply said, “Tell me we'll take our time.”

Deckard licked his lips, hesitated for a second before he nodded. And then he let go of Owen's wrist as quickly as he'd grabbed it, stepped back and laughed a little. There was something weirdly joyful in that laugh, something that reminded Owen that for all his cold professionalism, his sleek veneer of simply getting the job done, Deckard loved a good bit of cruelty every bit as much as Owen did. He simply liked to pretend that he only ever did it to indulge his brother.

Owen didn't mind letting him pretend, as long as Deckard did indulge him.

* * * * *

Between the two of them, planning their revenge was almost too easy. Over years of freelancing they'd both acquired enough contacts who owed them a favour or three – _friends_ as Deckard liked to call them, probably because people owing him things was the only definition of friendship he'd ever really been familiar with –, which made even the fact that neither of them particularly felt like risking a return to the US any earlier than necessary not much of a problem. This was what Owen had always excelled at – precise planning that took every eventuality, every possible problem into consideration and included at least one, preferably two backup plans. He preferred to work with a team, but this was too personal to involve anyone else too deeply, and then what did he need a team for when he had Deckard?

The nights started cooling down as summer turned into autumn, though they were still warm enough that Owen didn't much mind Deckard's newly found habit of leaving the windows open at night (of course, the fact that even here, in a safe haven that nobody in the world knew of, Deckard had every one of those windows booby-trapped helped). 

Owen slept uneasily that night, had been sleeping badly for days. Maybe it was because his workouts had long stopped exhausting him to the point where he all but passed out in the evening, maybe it was because their revenge felt so close it made his fingertips tingle in anticipation, and waiting for the last bits of preparation to click into place was more unnerving than all those long weeks and months of training, waiting, and scheming had been. He wanted to be done with this humiliating part of his life, with his defeat, his injuries, with bloody Dominic Toretto and having to hide away in the middle of nowhere while he licked his wounds. Not even having his brother back and closer than they'd been in ages had made up for all of that.

Eventually he gave up on sleep, glanced at his phone to find it was almost three am, and still went straight for his brother's room. The door wasn't locked, but Owen took care to open it with just enough noise to wake him. Far better that way than to sneak up and find himself with a gun pressed against his side. He wasn't in the mood for impromptu night-time sparring, which Deckard sometimes seemed to be annoyingly fond of. 

The curtains rustled in the night breeze, but they weren't drawn and let in enough moonlight that Owen could see his brother sit up on the bed, the tension leaving his shoulders immediately when he recognised Owen in the doorway. Deckard had always preferred to sleep in complete darkness, even back when they'd been children. Owen still remembered their shared room, the heavy curtains keeping the light of the street lamps out, and he'd been six years old when it had first occurred to him that some children might have been scared of the dark. Owen hadn't been. Being scared had always seemed like a ridiculous concept while his brother was around. And by the time Deckard left for the army, Owen had learnt that there were simple ways of playing other people to neutralise them. That and, well, if all else failed, Deckard had remained rather humourless when it came to people threatening his little brother in any way.

But Owen supposed his time in prison had made darkness a lot less appealing to Deckard, as odd as it was to see his brother change any of his lifelong habits.

“What is it?” Deckard asked, his voice alert and yet rough with sleep. The sound soothed Owen's nerves after hours of tossing and turning in bed. He walked over and made himself comfortable on Deckard's bed, sitting cross-legged next to him and watching him in the half-dark. 

“I couldn't sleep and got bored.”

Deckard snorted, but instead of lying back down he leant against the headboard.

“What are you, eight? Am I supposed to read you a bedtime story?”

“I think I'd pay good money to see that.” Owen chuckled.

They were quiet for a long time, the clock by the bed ticking away seconds and minutes – Deckard had always been fond of that sound, and even these days it mostly reminded Owen of their shared childhood bedroom. Deckard sat perfectly still, watching Owen watch him, waiting for him to say or do something. He'd always been the more patient of the two of them.

“What are you going to do when this is over?” Owen asked eventually. It was a topic they'd both studiously avoided for weeks, focusing on the task at hand with the single-mindedness the military had so successfully instilled in both of them. And yet Owen had always been too interested in the big picture, in the long con, to think about nothing else.

“Get back to work, I suppose.” Deckard shrugged, a small smile playing around his lips. “I think this is the longest holiday I've ever taken.”

Owen shifted closer to him. “You don't exactly need the money.”

“Neither do you. But we'd both be bored out of our mind if we spent any longer than we have to doing nothing but swimming in the ocean and occasionally going to a shooting range. Don't tell me you're thinking about retiring.”

“No.” Owen laughed again, the thought too absurd to contemplate for long. He reached out to touch Deckard's biceps, just below the sleeve of his dark tshirt, fingertips finding a thick scar. He'd never asked, but he knew Deckard had it from the last time he'd gone after Toretto and his ilk because it looked too fresh to be anything else. “Though I will extend that vacation a little bit to stop looking like the bloody Phantom of the Opera.”

Deckard moved at that, turned to face Owen properly and pressed his palm against Owen's ruined cheek. Owen knew he'd been lucky – his bones had survived the fall mostly intact, as had his muscles, but the skin itself was badly scarred. It dulled the sensation of Deckard's touch and that alone would have been reason enough to mind.

“It's not _that_ bad,” Deckard said. It wasn't an attempt to comfort him, Owen knew, just a fact. They'd both seen far worse wounds in their lives.

“You would say that, you probably appreciate being the less ugly one of us for the first time in your life.”

Deckard's fingers slid lower, over the scar tissue on the side of Owen's throat, stopped only briefly at the collar before he pulled Owen's shirt slowly over his head. It was the last thing Owen had expected his brother to do, but he went along with it gladly, even though it meant exposing the continuation of the scar tissue over his shoulder and chest. Deckard had seen it before, often enough, but he'd never touched it, not the way he did now, slowly, as if to memorise every bit of destroyed skin.

“You always said you preferred to work alone,” Owen said and redirected Deckard's hand to his other side, away from skin that barely appreciated his touch anymore, and even in the half-dark Deckard's fingertips found the old shrapnel scars on Owen's right side. They'd been there for a decade, and right below them a jagged, ugly scar from a wound Deckard himself had stitched up, on one of the rare missions they'd worked together. “But we always made an excellent team.”

Owen was reliable, Deckard was precise – they both had the one quality the other valued most in a partner, and they were both so good at their job that neither was ever a weakness to the other. And yet Deckard had never stuck around after their rare joint missions, and Owen had always been too proud to insist. Deckard's thumb caressed the scars on Owen's side, rubbed over them lightly, but often enough that the skin warmed under his touch.

“You'd say that,” Deckard said quietly, his voice barely more than a rough whisper. “You know I'd die for you.”

It wasn't a grand sentimental declaration, nor even something he seemed to expect much of a reaction to. It was simply a self-evident fact, though one that had always remained unspoken. Owen had never needed to hear it, but maybe Deckard needed to say it, after all the things he'd said in anger those three years ago when he'd seemingly turned his back on him. It sent a small shudder through Owen, a warmth in his chest that didn't lessen the urge to dig his fingers into Deckard's skin, bruise him and hold him down and feel the truth of those words under his hands.

He didn't quite do that, just pulled Deckard's tshirt over his head as quickly as Deckard had got him out of his. His hand went immediately for a knotted scar on Deckard's chest, a few inches above his heart. Three years ago – the bullet that had almost killed Deckard, and worse, the bullet that had almost made him walk away. Part of Owen had wanted to kill him for that. What right did his brother have to live if not for him?

Owen's thumbnail scratched over the soft skin next to the scar, down over Deckard's chest until it brushed over his nipple.

“I wouldn't trust anyone else to die for me,” he said. They were so close that the air felt heated between them, their breath intermingling, Owen's calf resting against Deckard's knee. He let his hand slide up again, over Deckard's shoulder, his left arm and his elbow, feeling soft fuzz against his palm and then a scar so old he wouldn't have found it if he hadn't known precisely where it was. One of the first knife fights Deckard had got into. He'd been fourteen, not particularly tall but exceptionally mean, and Owen's favourite game had been to get people to threaten him to watch Deckard take them apart. He didn't remember the face or the name of the boy who'd pulled a knife that day, he only remembered that Deckard had bled so much his clothes were soaked with blood, and he remembered that Deckard had beaten the other boy's face until it had been nothing but a pulpy mess of blood and bones. 

Deckard's eyes followed Owen's hand, his own fingers still pressed to Owen's side, and he bent his head until his forehead touched Owen's.

“The things I've done for you,” he said. There was not a hint of regret in his voice, only resignation and a quiet sort of amusement. “You always liked danger too much for your own good. I stopped counting how often you almost got me killed.”

“I never asked you to do any of those things for me,” Owen replied. He kept his voice down, too – it was a rare thing for Deckard to be so open and the last thing Owen wanted was to ruin this, to lose the hot touch of Deckard's hand against his skin.

“You didn't have to.” And this time Deckard laughed quietly, made to shake his head and then aborted the movement so his forehead stayed leaning against Owen's. “You made sure you never had to.”

Owen put his free hand on Deckard's right knee, and after pushing the thin blanket Deckard had been sleeping under aside, he found his skin bare below the soft fabric of Deckard's briefs. There was a scar there, too, a harmless one from a bike accident before Owen had been born, but the cut had been so deep that even all these decades later Owen still felt the thin line under his fingertips.

“You're making me ask now.”

“You want us to keep working together after this is all done,” Deckard said, barely making it sound like a question.

“It would spare me the trouble of having to find myself a new team.” Owen didn't say that he'd already grown used to having Deckard around all day. He had never been a loner like his brother, he'd always preferred to have some company, but at the same time most people either bored him senseless or annoyed him in no time. He'd never had that problem with Deckard. He wanted to strangle him on occasion, but he supposed that was about the only normal brotherly feeling he had towards him. “But that's not what I meant. There's something else you never gave me no matter what I did.”

Even in the dim light he could see the expression in Deckard's eyes change just before he looked away. His shoulders tensed up visibly, as if he was about to push Owen away in anger and walk off like most times when Owen had even tried to bring this up. Owen didn't want to give him the opportunity to even think about that too hard; curled his fingers tightly around Deckard's forearm to keep him from going for the gun he knew his brother kept nearby, grabbed his shoulder with his other hand to steady himself when he straddled Deckard's lap. For a second the tension in Deckard's muscles under Owen's hands felt almost unbearable, the look in his eyes was a pure promise of violence, but he didn't actually move.

“Don't look at me like that, Deckard.” Owen didn't bother to bite back a sneer. It wasn't that Deckard would never hurt him, certainly not. There were scars on his body that Deckard's hands had left there, mostly while sparring, one or two during an actual fight – but Deckard never _hesitated_ when he was going to hurt him. If Owen had truly misjudged this, he'd already be on his back with blood spurting from his nose and the heel of Deckard's hand jammed against his throat. “Do you really think this, of all things, is going to change anything?”

Deckard's eyes were almost black in the dark, his muscles quivered with barely restrained tension when Owen's hand slid from his shoulder to his throat, fingers curling tightly around it. Deckard's left hand was still free, still idle until it finally found its way to Owen's thigh, pressing it closer to himself. Owen turned his head, his lips brushed over Deckard's rough cheek, mouthed against it, “Do you really think this is going to give me any more power over you than I already have?”

He didn't see Deckard's smile, only felt it against his own cheek – and he knew what it looked like, knew the way Deckard's thin lips quirked up, the way his eyes darkened with things nobody but him ever found amusing.

“It was the one thing I could deny you.”

“No. You can't.”

Their first kiss was a hungry bite more than anything else, Owen's teeth digging into Deckard's bottom lip just as he tightened his grip on his brother's throat. This time Deckard didn't hesitate, but yanked his hand free from Deckard's grip with almost insulting ease, wrapped both arms around him so tightly that it squeezed the air out of Owen's lungs. Owen gasped into Deckard's mouth, his own hand keeping Deckard from doing the same and leaving his brother with not much else to do than to bite him back. It was almost as if their hands had already used up what bit of tenderness they both had in themselves; their kiss was more of a competition about who would draw blood first, though Owen wasn't sure which one of them was bleeding when he felt the sweet tang of blood on his lips. He pulled back enough to see a dark smear on Deckard's lips, parted breathlessly until Owen loosened his grip just enough to let him gasp for air.

He couldn't be sure if Deckard only _let_ him push him down onto his back, but his brother's grip around his torso was still so vice-like that Owen idly wondered if Deckard would actually be able to break his spine if he set his mind to it. He thought it more than unlikely, in this position, but he still enjoyed the idea, enjoyed the harshness with which Deckard fingers dug into his back, and he already felt his flesh ache under that touch. He was under no illusion that he could truly keep Deckard down, even with both hands on his brother's throat now, but that only made this more fun.

“You know, I almost killed you back then,” Owen said, his voice rougher than he'd expected it to be. He licked over the small smear of blood on Deckard's chin, up to his lips, and felt them quirk into a smile.

“I thought you might,” Deckard said.

Owen loosened his grip in surprise, wanted to pull back to get a better look at Deckard's face, but his brother held him so tightly that he couldn't move an inch.

“I told you we were done, turned my back on you – I thought you might come after me for that,” Deckard explained. Licked his lips and only ended up smearing the blood over them.

“If I had,” Owen started softly, “would you have stopped me?”

And Deckard smiled that smile he'd always reserved for Owen's darkest ideas, the ones he'd frown about before he'd turn his head and smirk to himself.

“What do you think?” 

The truth was that Owen didn't know – there was no way Deckard would have killed him or even seriously injured him, not even in self-defence, but beyond that, he had no idea. He couldn't fathom himself truly going through with it, so maybe Deckard's reaction to it was just as unknowable to him. But what he said was, “I think you would have let me kill you.”

He pressed his fingers into Deckard's throat, incongruously vulnerable, and Deckard pushed back into it like it was the gentlest caress. He didn't confirm nor deny it, and while there was a part of Owen that relished just the thought of Deckard letting him snap his neck, he enjoyed the rabid racing of his pulse far more, the heat of Deckard's cock hardened against his arse, the way Deckard's hands had stopped merely holding him in place and had started roaming over Owen's back, one of them down to his arse, the other up to the back of his neck.

Owen kissed him again because he'd wanted to do that for as long as he could remember, kissed him with all that violent longing of years of idly hoping that Deckard would indulge him in this just like he'd always indulged him in everything else. He'd grown so used to getting Deckard to do what he wanted that it hadn't occurred to him that he could get even more if he just took it.

He didn't stop kissing him while he rode him that night, and the way Deckard's eyes widened in surprise when Owen sank down onto his cock, the way he panted for air when Owen tightened his grip on his throat again more than made up for the pain that shuddered up his spine. He didn't care that he'd be sore in the morning or that Deckard's hands were covering his hips and thighs in bruises, that Deckard's grip on his cock was almost painful when his brother finally touched it. There was nothing tamed about Deckard even when he could only breathe at Owen's leisure, and if anything Owen's hands choking him only made him buck his hips up harder, left Owen every bit as breathless.

Afterwards Owen stretched out on top of him, both their skin slick with sweat and come where it trickled down Owen's thigh and was smeared over Deckard's stomach, but Owen felt far too boneless to move and clean himself up. He heard Deckard's heart thumping under his ear, heard his deep, greedy breaths now that Owen had finally let go of his throat. Deckard's palm was pressed firmly against the back of Owen's neck, holding him in place like he expected him to leave, but all Owen did was run his fingertips over the scar on Deckard's chest. 

“I think I only didn't come after you because I knew you'd come back on your own,” Owen mused after a while. He hadn't always been sure of that, no, but deep down he'd kept expecting it. Deckard had never been able to stay away from him. 

“Of course you did,” Deckard replied. He laughed so quietly Owen only felt the light rumble in his chest. “Nobody could ever accuse you of a lack of confidence.”

Deckard turned his head, his nose brushing over Owen's sweaty hair, and he let out a deep, relaxed sigh. He didn't bother to dislodge Owen, seemingly happy to let his brother sleep on top of him the way Owen hadn't in almost thirty years. 

* * * * *

Not everything went according to plan in the end, but then they had been prepared for that, too. This time they didn't let themselves get carried away with too much flashiness and impatience, and Owen was nothing if not methodical when he set his mind to it. They'd picked off their targets one by one, always leaving them just enough time to hear about what had befallen their friends and family until they were next. There was no need to get _creative_ with their deaths, though they'd always made sure to draw things out a little. Toretto they'd saved for last – it seemed appropriate, a good way to close a chapter neither of them particularly cared to dwell on any longer.

Owen felt elated on their way back to their safehouse – the plan was to lie low for a night before they'd leave the country again, at least for the time being. They'd taken separate cars and Owen had to fight down the urge to challenge his brother to a race; that sort of fun would have to wait for when they didn't have to keep a low profile. Even so Owen reached the safehouse before Deckard and made his way directly to the bathroom. He was still scrubbing his hands clean when Deckard arrived, and through the half-open bathroom door Owen could hear him lock and secure every door and window, followed by the soft thump of boots falling to the floor and the rustling of clothes.

Their eyes met in the mirror when Deckard stepped into the bathroom, his right hand coming to rest lightly on Owen's hip as he stood behind him. An odd sensation of relief washed through Owen, and he hadn't noticed how tense he'd been on the way back until that tension left him again. Deckard frowned as if the change in Owen's posture hadn't escaped him. Owen looked away, and instead of saying anything he took both of his brother's hands in his own and pulled them under the running water. Deckard hesitated for a moment before he pressed closer to Owen's back, and he had to stretch a little bit so he could lean his chin on Owen's shoulder. 

Owen was almost disappointed to find his brother's hands almost clean, but he still took more than a little pleasure in washing what bit of blood there was off them, running his fingertips over the two knuckles of Deckard's right hand that were scraped.

“I almost expected you to leave,” Owen said finally, once the water was running clear instead of pink with blood. “To tell me you'd meet me here and then not show up.”

“Did you really?” Deckard pulled his hands from Owen's grasp, didn't bother to dry them before he grabbed Owen by the hips to make him turn around. He'd slipped out of his jacket, and his grey shirt was sticking to his chest, the fabric dark with sweat. Owen had always loved the way his brother smelt after a fight – although 'fight' was probably too euphemistic a word for what had transpired that day.

“I said 'almost'.” Owen shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't quite feel. “You are a moody bastard.”

“I'm in a pretty good mood today.” Deckard's hands slipped under Owen's shirt, the look in his eyes far more impatient than his light touch led on. 

“So you're staying?” Owen hated how pathetically hopeful that sounded, so he smiled and added, “For now?”

“You did ask me to,” Deckard replied, as if that was all there was to it. He slid his hands up Owen's sides, grinned in a way that already made Owen anticipate that he wouldn't like the next words. “Although a bloody coma is manipulative even for you, little brother.”

Owen punched him in the side for that, not half as hard as he could have at a better angle, and he was in far too good a mood to try harder. Deckard laughed breathlessly, wrapped his arms around Owen to pull him close and kiss him hard. Owen groaned against his lips, tried and failed to keep Deckard close when his brother broke the kiss far too soon.

“I need a shower,” Deckard said and made a step backwards. He promptly proceeded to ignore Owen as he slipped out of his remaining clothes and stepped into the shower, but if Deckard had wanted Owen gone, he would have thrown him out. The water was already running hot by the time Owen had undressed and joined Deckard in a shower that was hardly spacious enough for both of them. Deckard was leaning forward, his hands pressed against the tiles, his back muscles stretched taut while he let the hot water splatter over his neck and shoulders. His soft, relaxed moan was almost drowned out by the water when Owen ran his palms over his brother's sides before he slotted himself closely against Deckard's back. The water was too hot for Owen's taste, steaming up the small bathroom, but he didn't bother to do anything about it, his hands too busy roaming over Deckard's body, over muscles that were every bit as strong again as Owen remembered them being for most of their lives. 

He kissed Deckard's neck, teeth grazing over his skin until they found a bruise they'd left there a few nights earlier and sunk into it again, and this time he heard Deckard's moan loud and clear. And Deckard still didn't twist away or turn around, not when Owen left a second bruise right next to that first one, not when his hands slid down to Deckard's arse, tentatively at first and then more firmly.

He didn't ask if Deckard was going to let him fuck him, didn't ask either if Deckard had ever let anyone else fuck him, though he sincerely doubted the latter. Deckard was tight around Owen's fingers, their touch still careful while he kept expecting Deckard to change his mind; he was tighter still around his cock, but by then Owen had stopped being all that careful. 

Deckard hissed in pain, his back muscles tensing up again, but he didn't budge, even pressed back against him as if he was every bit as desperate for this as Owen was. It almost could have made Owen feel like he had his brother at his mercy, but there was nothing subdued about Deckard even now, under every hard thrust, every bite that added a red mark to his shoulders. But the fact that his brother _let_ him have this didn't make it any less exhilarating, any less heady – not when he'd finally understood that Deckard would let him have absolutely anything.

“We should do this in bed,” Owen gasped against Deckard's neck. His hands kept Deckard where he wanted him, but the shower was far too slippery for him to fuck his brother as hard as he truly wanted to. Just picturing Deckard on his hands on knees in front of him almost made him lose it. Deckard glanced back over his shoulder, gave Owen a dirty grin.

“You wanna stop and move?” he asked breathlessly, his brief laugh turning into a groan when Owen thrust into him again.

Owen pressed his face against Deckard's shoulder when he came, clinging to him more for support now than to keep him in place until he got his balance back. The water felt almost unbearably hot, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to take his hands off Deckard's body, just let them slide over his wet skin when Deckard turned around. He curled his fingers lazily around Deckard's cock, delighted to find him still hard. Deckard _liking_ this was probably just about the only thing even better than the mere fact that Deckard had allowed him to do this.

Deckard's cheek was rough with stubble against Owen's scarred face, his touch firm and deliberate when his right hand went for the back of Owen's neck, a slow caress that only lasted for a second before he tightened his grip painfully. It didn't take a lot of imagination to figure out what he wanted.

Going to his knees for Deckard had been just about the only thing Owen hadn't fantasised about in all those years, or at least not all that often – it would have felt too much like begging him to stay, and Owen was far too proud to beg even Deckard for anything. But Deckard had left him and come back without Owen ever having to ask him to, he'd ripped a bloody path through half a dozen countries to get Owen back and destroy anyone foolish enough to lay a hand on him. There was nothing in the world Owen would _have_ to beg Deckard for.

So he turned the damn water down to a more pleasant temperature and sank to his knees, looked up at him because he didn't want to miss the expression on his face, but Deckard's hands pulled him closer immediately, pushed his cock between Owen's lips so hard that Owen gagged against it. It made Deckard's thigh muscles shudder under Owen's hands, and after that Owen didn't need Deckard's hand encouraging him anymore to take his cock in deep enough that it made him choke.

After everything Deckard had done for him, Owen supposed it was the least he could do. Especially since it turned out that he didn't actually mind doing it all that much.


End file.
